Hairy Psalms
Or
I Think I Bent My Wookie

Well, it's all over now. Officially, and without doubt, over, over, over. Believe it or not, I had this smug attitude regarding music, thinking I had some taste, thinking that I knew something not too many other people knew. I was special, and it wasn't an overnight special. Oh no. This special lasted for years. And it came to a crashing halt yesterday, thanks to the most unlikely of sources. When I was a lad back in Seminary school, there was a teacher who put forth the proposition that you can petition the Lord with prayer... Wait. No no, that's not it at all. For years now, I have told anyone who will listen that the best album of all time is Angel Dust by Faith No More. I've heard scoffs, chuckles, "Who?"s, pffts, yeah rights, and "The 'What Is It' band?"s, but never have I heard anyone say, "Oh hell yeah". Imagine my surprise when the April issue of Stuff Magazine (not an endorsement), in their music special, named Faith No More's Angel Dust their favorite album. I'm thrilled and tarnished at the same time. The Gospel according to Jutsy will now look like a trendy social play-along, with me trying to fit in with the guys over at Dennis Publishing, to whom I have made several submissions already. Adding to my "Are-you-sure-I-didn't-really-write-that"-ism is the fact that they also placed California by Mr. Bungle at #19, as well as naming Led Zeppelin's In Through The Out Door as the "Roundest Album of All Time". All of these lend credence to my deluded belief that I'm walking around in a hypno-haze, leading multiple lives that I am not really aware of. I think I did it, but I don't remember. And so there I was, not sure if I wrote what I read, or even read what I read, just awash in their Pokémon-inspired vinyl record graphics. All of a sudden, a thick film developed in my mouth, and I began to feel dizzy. A nice cold beer certainly would have taken care of that awful taste, but unfortunately I had selected that particular day to try to dry out after 2 solid weeks of Drunks.com-ing. In solace, I went for the next best thing to drinking: self-gratification. Well sir, since I already had the April issue of Stuff Magazine (not an endorsement), I figured I'd thumb through the pages a bit. Since the cover featured the lovely Beyoncé from Destiny's Child, I started imagining a scenario... the year was 1799, and I was an idealistic young plantation owner named Thomas Jefferson, and she a shy housegirl with a tattered babushka and a wonderful singing voice. As the dinner dishes were being cleared and cigars being lit, she would be encouraged to favor the dining guests with a song... and after brandy, much later, a private song in the master bedroom. As I continue on in this vein, what was exciting and mind-taking-off of the whole music thing suddenly wasn't keeping the mind focused any more. Flipping the pages to find something else, I landed on picture after picture of attractive young singers, but not quite enough or of the right kind, if you know what I mean. And flipping one more fateful page, I found something, some magical photo, that would have made my mission complete had I allowed it. A picture of a recipe. God damn it. Of course I stopped then and there, realizing that perhaps something was amiss. A picture of a hot chicken and cold vegetable salad was turning me on at that point more than all of the Rock Sluts '01 were doing. And the worst part is I thought the chicken and salad was being served up on a little mini pita or some type of flatbread... when I f ound out it wasn't, I was sorely disappointed... the ol' "it happens to lots of entrées" came to mind. And there, hungry, tired, still slightly excited, I did the worst possible thing in the given situation. Letting the new issue fall, and without new issue of my own, I decided to let myself fall right asleep. Without finishing, kind of confused and a little concerned for myself, I drifted off thinking about history and the state of the Hard Rock Café. Imagine my surprise when I awoke in the middle of the night, having dreamt a new dream. Jump right in if you've had this one, guys: you have become John Wayne Bobbitt, and you're post-snip, pre-reattach. What a pain in the groin area! At first I couldn't tell if I was simply pinching off a hell of a piss, if I had single-handedly given myself gonorrhea, or if my balls had fallen asleep... What had happened, and I'm sure this has happened to almost every guy out there, is this: before falling asleep, I had neglected to take my boxers off completely, or at least tuck myself back into them. And so the pain and pressure I was feeling was the waistband of my drawers digging down in the spot where the sac meets the rest of that whole area. In a word, pain... Personally, I blame Stuff, and Destiny's Child, and Pokémon, and chicken with cold cucumber dressing. But not the Greek olives, because I wasn't going to use them anyway - those things are the extraneous ridges for her pleasure on the condom that is culinary delight. Not something an Epicurean like me has any use for. (The ridges, not the hypothetical condom... always practice good judgment and safe sex, as well as responsible drinking.) So, to sum up, according to the music, photo and food sections of a popular leading men's magazine, I may or may not be leading multiple lives I do not know about. That may be the least of my problems right now, however, considering I may or may not be dysfunctional when trying to be intimate with myself. At any rate, Angel Dust IS the best album ever. Maybe if I used a cucumber and tomato scented shampoo/conditioner on the palms of my hands...   Other Articles by Justin: "Noodle Soup" Or "How to deal with the random one-night hook-up." "Give a Brother a Right of Way" Or "Yield Your Beer" "A Sobering Time of Year" Or "Single for St. Paddy's Day" "A Giant-Sized Thirst" Or "Ravin' About Football" "Red White and Steamed" Or "Bush League Justice"   Justin would like to hear your questions about drinking etiquette. Feel free to email him at vitamin.j@drunks.com. Your question maybe answered in Justin's next article.